


Life

by jacanas



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Gen, Immortality, Kidnapping, no romantic relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-25
Updated: 2014-09-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 12:40:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1688708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacanas/pseuds/jacanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was little reason to lie to himself under any circumstances, and Hannibal Lecter indulged his own whims more often than not.  Stepping inside of the old, abandoned house, he understood why he was here and where he was headed.  </p><p>And yet now, with the rotted entryway behind him, he found himself at something of a loss.  Shock was far too strong a word; even surprise would not do.  He felt inconvenienced, more than any particular strong emotion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has nothing to do with the current show canon - in fact, this would be a prequel to season one. A prequel to the prequel! But I've had this character running laps through my mind for weeks, and I decided to exorcise my pain from the season 2 finale by giving this story idea a voice. 
> 
> This is indeed a crossover of sorts - can anyone guess what the other media might be? 
> 
> I will be picking at this story indefinitely. I hope you enjoy!

There was little reason to lie to himself under any circumstances, and Hannibal Lecter indulged his own whims more often than not.  Stepping inside of the old, abandoned house, he understood why he was here and where he was headed.  

And yet now, with the rotted entryway behind him, he found himself at something of a loss.  Shock was far too strong a word; even surprise would not do.  He felt inconvenienced, more than any particular strong emotion.

He had not expected this, and he thought that he might need a moment to gather his thoughts and allow for a new course of action.  

The man he had chosen was simple and slavering, the type of creature which should have been aborted prior to slithering from its mother’s womb.  They populated the world in droves, and he took some amount of satisfaction in ridding the world of their creeping poison - yet still, he found himself enamoured with those who considered themselves outside of the human spectrum.  Hannibal had few greater delights than the cultivation of a like-minded individual, and it appeared that, quite by accident, he had stumbled across his first intended victim who in truth was more.  

The evidence was sprawled on an old, molded couch, covered in stains and ancient grime.  A young woman’s corpse, splayed and bloodied, with a single dagger shoved straight through her heart, deep into the tissue and long enough to pierce her in place to the tattered cushions.  It was lucky she was dead, as infection was all but guaranteed after exposure to such grimy conditions.  Hannibal could not decide if the use of a dagger were more or less appealing.  It was certainly a medieval type of weapon, and effective, but perhaps showier than needed for a roving murderer.  

Of course, there were ways to hide such things, and Hannibal knew most.  But he had seen no car outside of the house, which meant the man had carried this particular weapon through town, likely hidden in a coat.  It was an odd, unnecessary choice if he were just going to stab his victim through.  There was no appreciation of aesthetic in this visage, and Hannibal wondered if perhaps this were a crime of passion and the dagger an emotionally charged message rather than a weapon of choice.  

He could ask, he supposed.  But bad manners demanded restitution.  

He did appreciate the theatricality of the weapon, and seeing as its current owner had no use for the thing, Hannibal found himself overcome with the impulse to use the killer’s methods against him.  He grasped the handle and pulled it free, the blade sharper than anticipated - as though it were used and under regular maintenance.  A curious development.  

“I am sorry, my dear,” he said to the poor desecrated corpse.  “I will see to it that you are found in a timely manner.”  She might have been a lovely little thing, once - dark-skinned, round face, and the black, thick hair of a native.  He would guess that her eyes had been nearly the same color, and he glanced over her once before deciding the exact method he would use on this latest intended victim.  

He could not help admire this woman her spirit more than the man who murdered her:  he had never met her in life, and it was her assailant which offended him.  She was covered in bruises which indicated she had fought her attacker.  The blood under her fingernails and spotting her mouth implicated that she had scratched and bitten - a fight to the death, then, and though she had lost, she deserved to be honored for the showing.  

He heard the back screen door slam, barely clinging to its rusted hinges.  A muttering, an uncertain gait - his prey was agitated.  Possibly from the earlier fight with this woman.  Hannibal waited patiently for the man to round the hallway corner and see him standing there, prize in hand.  

The man rounded the corner and stopped, eyes widening at the sight before him.  He took in the dagger, eyes flickering to the body below, and his face twisted in fear.  

Two things happened simultaneously:  

The man, staring between predator and victim, demanded “What did you do?”

And behind him, with a sudden painful gasp, the woman’s eyes snapped open and fell upon Hannibal’s back.  

 

* * *

 

 

There was a split-second’s decision to make, and Hannibal was not the type to delay.  He flung himself across the space, taking advantage of the man’s shock to drive the dagger straight through his torso.  He groaned and staggered backwards, hitting the wall behind him and pinning Hannibal with a look far more akin to annoyance than fear.  In another moment he collapsed to his knees, then his side, a slick of blood staining the wall where he’d stood.  Hannibal stared down at the corpse and considered.  He needed to fill his larder once more, having used his last filets only two days ago - a slight mewling whimper, a soft “Oh” from behind changed his course of action, and he turned to regard the woman where she lie.  

She was on her feet and running already, swift in her fear.  He was faster only for having total cognizance on his side.  He grappled her around the waist and found himself plagued by the same hellcat who had fought her previous attacker.  Fists, clawed nails, teeth, even the heels of her feet became aggressive weapons in her desperation to force him to release her.  He noted that she did not scream; her grunts were the sounds of a trained fighter struggling, not a panicked victim fleeing.  

How quaint.  

He latched one leg around her ankle and spun her into the floor, falling with her to use his greater weight for leverage.  She was belly-down, the most compromised position possible.  She could only claw at the floor, attempt to push herself up with her hands, squirm.  He waited until she accepted that she was defeated and fell still, panting harshly against the yellowed floorboards.  

He stroked her hair back from her face to see wide, terrified eyes staring up at him.  And yet for all her fear, she fought not as a scared rabbit but a fierce wildcat.  He admired her, and for seeing his face and his actions, he could not release her.  

He looked to the newer body, the man still slumped to the side, and wrapped an arm around her throat.  He pulled upward, bending her spine until she was choking at her own weight pressed into the crook of his elbow.  She clawed and fought still, her struggles weakening as her lungs strained for breath.  In a few more seconds she was limp, and he waited several more before releasing her to allow her head to drop to the floor.  

He checked for her pulse and found none.  He was too curious not to chance this test.  An experiment, to see if this were a fluke or something more.  Either outcome worked in his favor:  he did still have a larder to fill.  

He hefted her from the ground, draped over his shoulder, and exited the dilapidated building.  

 

* * *

 

He removed his tie and laced the fabric around her wrists, securing both behind her back.  She could not join him in the front of the car, and it was a simple task to load her limp body into the trunk and slam the door over her.  He climbed into the driver’s seat and twisted the key until the starter churned to life.  He would have listened to music as he drove, as home was over thirty minutes away, but he was listening for a specific sound.  

Not five minutes into the drive, he heard bumps and scuffles, the slight yelp of a struggling body which impacted a hard surface.  His fascination assured, he smiled and took care to avoid bumpier bits of road as he drove.  There was no need to cause the woman undue stress.  

He pulled into his drive and cut the vehicle’s power, listening as the struggles behind him ceased immediately after.  She might think that he had not heard her over the rumbling of the engine.  He considered the dimensions of the trunk and the size of her body, and took care in gathering a small case from the glove compartment before exiting the car.  He walked to the back and inserted his key into the lock, twisting until he heard the click of the latch releasing.  

He pressed the lid upwards and stepped to the side.  A small leg shot forward into the space where he’d been standing, a solid kick which would have at least knocked the wind from him.  He grabbed her ankle to capture her leg, and as she opened her mouth to scream jabbed a needle full of sedatives into her calf muscle.  The scream converted to a cry of pain and she struggled, her movements already sluggish.  She blinked at him as her eyes dulled and her mouth went slack, the fight leaking out of her along with her strength.  

He lifted her in his arms, this time more careful to brace her under her head and knees.  She was barely conscious, her eyes jolting under hooded lids, and she muttered in a language he did not recognize.  

He carried her inside and upstairs, laying her in the guest bedroom.  He unbound her hands and nestled her under the blanket, deciding to sacrifice clean linens for the moment.  She could bathe tomorrow, if he allowed it, and she would be grateful for the sensation of cleanliness.  It was a small gesture which held great reward, should she continue to prove so interesting.  

He left her there, locking the door behind himself, and left once more to gather supplies.  

 

* * *

 

 

Stephanie woke to a gentle, sun-dappled morning through clean blue curtains.  She moaned and pressed a hand to her forehead, a raging headache pounding away between her temples.  She remembered nothing for several moments, until with a shudder she remembered everything at once.  

She sat up to look around the room, forcing herself to ignore the lingering lethargy in her limbs.  The man was not here, which allowed her time to consider her options.  

He had taken her, she knew - she had fought, but each time he’d held the advantage of a fully functioning body.  Even now she felt the drugs he’d given her burning away in her muscles and head, pushing linearity to the side.  She moaned, braced both palms to her temples, and realized she was naked.  

She gripped the cover to herself and scanned the room.  A simple white dresser with elegant blue scripting leaned against the wall opposite the bed.  A nightstand with a small chair sat on the side of the bed, and on that nightstand was a glass of water, a lamp, and a pile of tightly folded women’s clothing.  Simple linen pants and a taupe shirt which would offer enough cover for her not to feel ashamed.  She slipped the shirt on and felt immediately better, despite the lack of underwear.  She could survive for the time being on basic coverage.  

She couldn’t trust the water, so she left it alone.  

Now to explore her new kingdom.  She stood, waited for the dizziness to pass, and began a slow, staggering passage of the quarters.  The room was small and offered no connecting bathroom, which meant she would probably see more of this place before the day was out.  She stepped to the window and drew the curtain aside.  The fall was decent, but not intolerable, and she tested the latches to see if they were real.  The window opened easily, the only barrier the outside screen to prevent the entrance of larger bugs.  She pushed at the thin wiring and felt it give.  A route already available, and there was no need to delay.  

The door clicked behind her and she tensed, her hand remaining outside, pressed against the mesh.  She heard the door open and waited to hear footsteps rushing her.  When there was silence, she turned herself sideways and looked back to see what was waiting for her.  

It was him, of course, with a casual-looking tray of food and an expensive set of shirt and pants.  He was tall, broad and toned, his hair a sandy blond and his eyes dark holes.  She blinked and creased her brow, her arms gathering across her chest in an unconscious, defensive maneuver.  He was looking past her, to the window, and stepped forward to set the tray down on the dresser, keeping himself squarely between her and the door.  

“Good morning,” he offered with a flash of a smile which never met his coal eyes.  She shivered and glanced at the food.  

“Breakfast, if you’re hungry.  I did not know how long it had been since you last ate a meal.”

She looked from the tray to him and let her confusion cover her face.  

“I have no intention of starving you,” he said.  He closed the door behind himself, providing a momentary barrier should she try to run, and then approached her.  She skipped to the side, lining up alongside the bed.  He closed the window and latched it, humming softly to himself.  

“This will not do,” he said.  “Sunlight is a privilege.”

“What do you want?” she asked.  She was gauging the possibility of running for the door with the bed in the way, and didn’t think her chances of making it before he caught her were high.  Better to stay complacent for the moment.  

“You have a particular ability that I am most intrigued by,” he said.  “I am sure you can guess what it might be.”

She swallowed, thickly.  

“Would you care to eat?  I would hate for your meal to get cold.”

He backed himself toward the door, once again maintaining the position of power.  She approached the tray to see eggs, bacon, toast and an unassuming glass of orange juice.  She felt bewildered, and somewhat betrayed.  

“Thank you,” she said, because she couldn’t think of anything better.  

“You are most welcome, miss?...”

She gambled.  

“I’m Stephanie Caldwell.”  She offered her hand to shake, and the man considered her outstretched arm before taking her hand in his own.  He shook once, civilly, and dropped her fingers.  His handshake was firm.  He was stronger than her.  

“Hannibal Lecter, Miss Caldwell.  It’s a pleasure.”  His eyes skimmed over her and she could clearly see his thoughts:  she didn’t look like a Stephanie Caldwell, and she knew it.  

She crossed her arms again.

“Do I get a shower?” she asked.  He nodded, slightly, and looked at the tray.  

“After you’ve eaten,” he said, and she looked down at the meal and tried to think of herself in a cafe, an eccentric waiter by her side.  

“Right,” she muttered, “sure, OK.”  She picked up the fork and forced herself through exactly ten bites of food.  She hardly tasted anything, and she pretended not to see her hands shaking as eggs fell from her folk and the orange juice sloshed over the edge of the glass.  She managed a small sip, wiped her mouth with the napkin, and stepped away.  

“I can’t,” she began, and he nodded at her.  

“Very well.  Come.  If you attempt to run, I will kill you.”

He could’ve been discussing a sporting event, the weather, his choice of suit.  He opened the door, then stepped toward her and raised a hand in her direction.  She gasped and jolted back, expecting him to strike her.  He merely waited, and she finally realized he was offering himself as an escort.  

She stared at him and tried to understand.  

“Your shower, Miss Caldwell,” he said.  “You will feel better for it.”

She moved forward, within striking distance, closer, passed him by.  He gestured down the hallway.  She looked at the door he’d indicated, open and welcoming.  She looked the other direction, down the stairway where the doors to the outside likely were.  She looked up at him, at the black holes of his eyes, and she moved.  

Her hand snapped up into his nose, followed by a knee to the groin.  He convulsed in the dual shock and she tore from the landing, feet skittering down the stairs as she stumbled her way for the exit.  She heard him behind her, loud and feral.  She sobbed when her hands connected with a wall ahead and shoved to the side, propelling herself through the hallways and desperate for escape.  

She didn’t know this building, had no idea where she was going.  A hand fisted in her hair and dragged back, pulling her off balance with a pain-filled shout.  He wrapped his arms around her torso, bracing her against his body and lifting her feet from the ground.  He strangled her with two fingers pressed deep into her throat, and she clawed at the sleeved arm.  Blackness closed in steadily, until she became dead weight.  

He never uttered a sound.  

* * *

 

 

She gasped to awareness and coughed harshly, jolting forward in the chair she was tied to.  Her wrists were both held by zip ties to the arms of the chair, a thick cord wrapped across her clavicle to keep her from leaning too far.  She breathed deeply and fought to focus her eyes, and froze when she saw that she was seated at a table, across from her captor.  

She blinked and waited for him to speak, to accuse her of terrible things, to question her ability.  When he said nothing, she looked to the sides, taking in the elegant dining room, the gaudy decor, the sexually explicit painting above the table.  

She panted and tried not to panic.  

“Now, I believe I made myself clear,” he said.  “Since death does not appear to be a permanent affliction for you, I will kill you as often as needed to promote docility.”  His accent slithered across the vowels and softened the harsher consonants until she struggled to understand him, and she opened her mouth to breathe more deeply.  “Am I clear?”

“You’re clear,” she whispered.  He nodded and stood, and she caught sight of the knife in his hand.  She struggled, tears finally springing to her eyes.  

“Stop,” she said, “stop -”

“A simple test, Miss Caldwell.”  He grasped her upper arm to hold her relatively still, and she cried out when he sliced through the skin, straight down to the bone.  

“God, _stop_ -” she begged.  He said nothing, watching the wound drip blood onto the armrest and floor.  He waited several long moments while she wept, sniffling wetly into the quiet, and slide the flat of the blade over the cut.  The skin revealed itself whole and knitted under the spilled blood.  

“Fascinating,” he murmured, and she tried to pull away, breath hitching.  “I must admit, Miss Caldwell, that I intend to discover the limits of your ability.”  She shook her head, panting, and he pulled her face up by the chin to look at him.  

“Unless you would simply tell me, of course,” he said.  

“Please -” she began, and he tsked at her.  

“You were doing well.  Brave, clever, fighting despite knowing you would fall.  Do not become unimpressive now.”

She closed her eyes and ignored the hot tears this pushed onto her cheeks.  She breathed deep, fisted her hands, dug her nails into the skin of her palms and told herself to focus.  

“I’ll tell you,” she said, her voice thick with fear to her ears.  She swallowed and tried again.  “May I have some water?”

He smiled indulgently, lifted the glass from the table, and held it to her lips.  

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Will a broken bone heal quickly?"  

She choked on the water and drew herself away from the glass, shaking her head.  Hannibal set the glass on the table where she could easily find it to assure herself he could add nothing to the water in the interim.  He pulled away and sat in his own chair, folding his hands and considering how best to proceed.  

“We sit at an impasse, Miss Caldwell,” he began.  “You have agreed to supply me with the information I request, however I am inquisitive by nature.  How can I trust your word when you make claims?”

“You can’t,” she said, and he admitted himself intrigued by her honesty.  

“Yes - there is the issue,” he said quickly, to cover his slight surprise.  “I propose a bargain.”

“If it doesn’t involve me leaving, right now, I don’t want to hear it.”  She sounded angry, and he could not fault her.  

“It does not, but you will listen regardless,” he said.  She had yet to look away from him, scowl at the floor or avoid his gaze.  She was riding her anger through this conversation, and he appreciated that this made her candid and responsive.  

“I’ve no intention of harming you more than necessary,” he said, “but you will need to accept consequences for certain actions.  You attempted to escape earlier, and now you are restrained.  If you remain compliant, I will not -”

"Spare me," she snapped, interrupting him.  He narrowed his eyes at her rudeness, and she scoffed.  

"Don't even bother,” she said.  “You're trying to make me think anything here is my fault - my doing.  It won't work.  I'm only here because of you, and I won't forget that."

"Very well," he said after several moments of thought.  "I suppose we may dispose of formalities in light of your revelation."  

"Yes, Mr. Lecter, I think we can," she spat.  

"Doctor."  

"What?"  She was caught off-guard by his correction, paling.  She threw herself at her restraints with sudden desperation, panting heavily.  He was puzzled by her overt display of fear, in light of how well she handled herself until this moment.  

"This distresses you," he observed.  She gave in, slumping back and slouching as far as her bindings allowed.  She looked to the corners of the room, searching for some form of assistance, and finally met his eyes in a wide, panicked display.  

She was trembling hard enough that her teeth chattered behind her lips.  He could smell her fear from across the table.  

"It is quite alright," he offered slowly, and pushed himself to standing.  He knew he was menacing her at the moment, and it was his intention.  Her fear was a tool he could exploit, even as he offered her back a little of her freedom.  He took up the knife from the table, still stained with her blood, and stepped behind her so that she could not see what he was doing.

Her knuckles were white against the arm rests, and the wood creaked as her shaking worsened.  He leaned forward so that she could feel his heat surrounding her, reached down to one wrist, and slit the plastic restraint to free her hand.  

She exhaled in a sudden whoosh of air, and lifted her hand immediately.  She stopped herself and dropped the hand back down to the armrest.  Her pathway would have led to him, and he realized she meant to fight him the moment she was free.  

He smiled.  

“Consequences, Miss Caldwell.”

“Stephanie,” she said as he cut her other wrist.  “Call me Stephanie.”  And she shoved the chair backwards, the angle hitting him in the center of his sternum.  The force she struck with was unanticipated, and she was slipping underneath the cord before he could recover.  He cursed himself for leaving her feet unbound, and cursed himself again when rather than run, she pulled the cord from the chair and whipped it straight into his face.  

The crack would leave a nasty welt which he would need to explain way in the coming days.  He still held the advantage of a deadly weapon, while she had gained range.  They stood staring at each other, and he realized she hadn’t run because she didn’t know the way out.  

“Stephanie,” he said, “this will not end well.”

“No, it won’t.”  She was backing away.  He waited until she was two full yards before hauling the chair from the ground and heaving it in her direction.  

She yelped and fell to the side, narrowly avoiding a direct strike.  He fell on her and used his greater weight and strength to immediate advantage, pinning her wrists above her head.  He used the cord to bind them, and she spit at him and tried to buck him off.  

“I see why your previous attacker left you for dead,” he said, and she turned her face away.  “Shall I kill you again, so soon?”  

“It’s already old,” she said to the wall.  He took her throat in hand and squeezed.  

“You’re right.  I have strangled you more than enough times now - a new method should take its turn.”  He raised the knife, and she tried to look brave as fear shimmered across her eyes.  

“How many times before your heartbeat stops, I wonder?”

* * *

 

She woke up still sore, and retched against the pillow under her head.  He’d taken her back to her room, but left her in the same clothes, now tattered and bloody.  The blood had long since dried; she felt sticky and cold with it, and covered her face with the pillow to scream.  

This wasn’t working.  She needed a new strategy, something to give herself time to observe and come up with a better plan.  She would cooperate, stay quiet and complacent.  She would wait for a better chance, and get herself free when a real opportunity opened.  

Her eyes fell on the window, and all thoughts of biding her time fell away in an instant.  She was on her feet and scrabbling at the latches to find them fused shut.  She couldn’t open the window any longer.  

A window was only glass and wood, and she had bones that would heal.  

She drew her fist back and slammed it forward, again and again, ignoring the pain reverberating through her arm.  When there was enough damage, she shoved her hand through, slicing her skin to ribbons on the shards lining the hole, splinters from the wood digging in deep.  She shoved at the wire mesh until it gave way, then looked down to gauge the distance.  Two stories, at least - survivable.  She pulled her arm back, and stepped away.  

It would hurt, but she would live to escape.  

She heard the door behind her as she ran forward, covered her head, and leaped full-body through the window to sail to the ground below.  She landed hard in a back area of the house, a garden of sorts; the foliage did nothing to break her fall.  She lay winded, her arm and one leg aching, and waited for the twinge.  

She was outside.  Now she needed to stand up, and get free.  

She groaned as she rolled over onto her stomach, pushed herself to standing.  She didn’t have much time - should’ve waited - her leg twinged and reset, and she cried out at the pain.  It was fast enough.  

She ran.  She was nearly at the alley when he caught her.  

“I’m impressed once more,” he panted into her ear, wrapping her from behind in a powerful hug.  She kicked weakly, too caught by her own body’s healing to fight.  She let out one sob of desperation, her attempt come and gone, and waited for him to kill her.  

Hannibal stroked her hair and pressed a needle deep into her throat.  She closed her eyes, certain that she would open them to the inside of a coffin.  

She didn’t fall asleep.  Her limbs grew heavy and limp, and she sagged in his hold while he carried her back inside the house.  He set her on the chair without bindings and she mumbled, tried to lift her arms, to do anything at all.  

He left when the doorbell rang, and she heard the concerned voice of a neighbor checking in on the noise.  They were too far away to hear the full conversation; she tried to cry out, and managed to drool.  

Hannibal returned after placating the neighbor - probably with a story of a bird hitting the window - with a kind smile and sat across from her, bringing one knuckled hand up to rest his chin.  He peered at her as though waiting for her to speak, and she narrowed her eyes and tried to communicate hatred without words.  

He seemed amused.  

“Point taken,” he said, and she felt some slight victory for that.  “However, we have a problem.  I cannot tolerate continued attempts to leave, especially as you are now damaging my property.”

He managed to sound magnanimous as he offered her a way out of damaging his property.  She grunted, trying to lift her hand.  Her arm didn’t move.  

“You may speak, Stephanie,” he said.  “The drug only impairs movement, not speech.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” she said.  

“There are two options open before us,” Hannibal said as though she hadn’t spoken.  “One involves constant sedation.  While this is the more trustworthy of the two, I am concerned about the effects this would have on our analysis.”

“Your experiments,”she said angrily, correcting him.  He tilted his head to acknowledge the change.  

“The other is simpler,” he continued.  “You have little concern for your own life, which is explained by your relationship with death.  Therefore, threatening you with injury appears to be unsuccessful.”

Stephanie felt her toes sliding against the ground in response to her efforts, and swallowed thickly.  

“Therefore, I will amend my terms:  each time you attempt to run, I will kill another.  Any whom you succeed in contacting, I will kill as well.  I assure you that I am not biased in my craft.  Child, man or woman - I will kill without impunity, and you will be at fault.”

She blinked.  Her toes curled further.  Her ankle twitched.  

“You don’t believe me?  Perhaps the neighbor, then - a kindly older man whose son died in Afghanistan.  I believe he sees me as a surrogate, although I am surely older than his son was.  It will be interesting to see how he reacts when I attack him.”  He stood up and moved toward the door.  She waited until she heard the front door opening to cry out.  

“No!  Stop!”  She could bend her knees; her fingers curled on the arms of the chair.  He entered the room just as she turned her head to look for him, and paused.  

“Ah,” he said, “the dosage was not high enough.”

But he didn’t move to stop her or otherwise restrain her.  She dropped her head forward, tugged at her arms until they moved to rest her hands on the table.  She panted, fighting the drug’s effects every second, and paused when he stepped up next to her.  

He rested a hand on her shoulder, and she nearly turned her head to bite him.  

“Those are my terms,” he said.  His hand tightened until bruising, and she flinched under the pressure.  “As you have no choice, consider yourself informed.”  

She closed her eyes, slumped her shoulders, and nodded.  

“Very good, Stephanie,” Hannibal said, and she hated him for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment if you are interested in more. This will be slow going as the idea comes, and comments help to inspire me to write faster!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is strange, I know. Bear with me as I exorcise the plot whispers from my head. Everyone's favorite profiler might show up in the next entry. Any thoughts on what the crossover is with yet?

In the morning he led her to the bathroom she’d earlier rejected, shutting the door firmly behind her.  

“I will return in thirty minutes,” he said through the door.  “Remember my terms.”

There wasn’t much Stephanie could use as a weapon inside of the small room, unless she could manage to pry the towel bar from the wall.  She made the attempt as soon as she had the thought, and found it too firmly attached.  She braced both hands on the sink, looked at herself in the mirror, and scowled.  

Thirty minutes was a long time to shower, and she wasn’t sure of why he gave her such leeway.  She undressed and folded her clothing to sit on the toilet, turned on the water and fiddled with the knobs until she figured out the mechanism for changing the water from cold to warm.  She stepped inside, picked up the soap, and tried to remember if she had been in worse situations than this.  

She still hadn’t decided by the time she washed her hair a second time, merely stalling, refusing to exit the soothing water until she felt she had to.  

She stepped out and toweled herself dry, then wrapped the towel under her arms and sat on the toilet to wait.  There was no toothbrush, no hairbrush, nothing else she could occupy her time with, and she found herself bored and anxious.  She never took long to ready herself in the morning, and couldn’t imagine what he thought she might be up to.  

She fisted her hand and banged on the door fifteen minutes in.  Hannibal opened it and tilted his head at her; she held her towel in place and left the bathroom, leaving her used clothing behind.  

“I don’t need that long,” she said, and stepped into the guest bedroom.  The window was gone, hidden behind three thick wooden boards which had been nailed over the opening the night before.  She could tell that he hated the design decision, but he did what he had to in order to prevent her trying that method again.  

A fresh set of clothing was waiting on the bed.  She slipped the soft linen pants on under the towel, cinching them tight at the top, then maneuvered the towel so that she could slip the shirt on without dropping it.  She felt his eyes on her back the entire time she moved, and wondered if he thought she might try to pry the boards from the window with her bare hands.  

She wouldn’t lie and say she hadn’t considered it.  

When she turned she found herself alone, the feeling of being watched merely a phantom conjured by her paranoid mind.  Apparently, Hannibal Lecter fancied himself a gentleman of some sort.  

She crossed her arms over her chest and sighed.  

She left the room through the wide open door, knowing this was a quiet test.  There were other rooms here on the second floor, other windows she could fling herself through.  He wanted to see what she would do, now that it wasn’t her own life under threat.  

She wasn’t certain if she believed him.  She could find out in one quick, efficient move, but if his offer was in earnest and some hapless innocent died because of her attempt, she didn’t know how she’d feel.  She wouldn’t take responsibility for _his_ actions, and yet…

She thumped down the stairway and headed for the dining room, unwilling to risk it - yet.  

 

* * *

 

Hannibal set his iPad, unlocked and enticing, directly next to her place setting at the table.  He was already eating when she peeked into the room, drawn by the scent of food and the sounds of a meal.  She wandered inside, skittish as a newborn foal, and took her seat while watching him eat.  He raised his glass to her in a mockery of a toast, and she looked down at the plate of eggs Benedict and French toast.  

She looked at the iPad, looked at him, and reached for it.  He made no move to stop her.  She pressed the home button to bring up the main screen, eyebrows raising when she saw that no password was needed.  He knew her immediate thoughts - email, online 911, _help_ \- and she swiped her finger across the screen to bring up whatever was hiding behind.  

She froze.  Her eyes flickered over the image displayed, and her dark skin flushed.  

“It is the Medal of Honor,” Hannibal said.  “Awarded posthumously to his son just last year for outstanding service.  I thought it a fitting tribute.”

Stephanie’s fingers were tight against the sides of the tablet.  It wasn’t a medal at all - it was a _human,_ mutilated almost beyond the point of recognition, head pointing downwards, limbs splayed into a five-point star.  Intestines circled the figure, twisted and carved to resemble a wreath of leaves, and a woman’s helmeted head had been slowly, meticulously carved into the chest, whole flaps of skin removed to create the design.  

It was beautiful.  

It was terrible.

Her hand cupped her mouth as she stared at the image laid out before her.  She closed her eyes against it, and shook her head once, slightly, to deny that she had seen this at all.

“My terms are absolute,” Hannibal said.  His fork clinked against his plate.  “What occurred yesterday will not happen again.”  

“What did he say?” she asked.  Her voice didn’t crack.  She had set the tablet down, flat against the table, and pushed it away.  She took a sip of water and looked at Hannibal, who was watching her.  

“You said it would be interesting to see,” she said.  “Was it?”

“Are you so curious to know?” he asked.

“I’m asking,” she said.  

“An answer which neatly does not answer.”

She gently slid one tine of her fork through the syrup which looped around her plate.  It disrupted the symmetry of the slash of syrup.  She could tell it annoyed him that she had yet to take a bite, and instead seemed intent on ruining the display for no reason.  

He reached to pull her plate away, and she slid it up off of the table and outside of his grasp.  She looked at him, eyes narrowed in challenge.  He settled back into his chair and studied her.  

“What a fascinating creature you are,” he said at last.  “How many have you killed?”

She set the plate down and shoved it across the table, hard enough to clank against his and chip the edge.  A portion of her eggs launched forward and spread into an untidy mess across his own meal and the wooden table; his own plate moved a few inches from the force of the blow, and nearly tipped onto the floor.  

She stood.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t be tedious,” he said.  “We both know how long it’s been since you last ate a meal.”

“Best to get that test out of the way, then,” she said.  “How long it takes me to starve?  I know you’re curious.”

He didn’t bother to deny it.  Instead, he began cleaning the spilled eggs from the table and piling them back onto her abandoned plate.  She tried her best not to look at the now-dark tablet, to not show how deeply she was affected.  He saw her fingers twitching, and smiled.  

“Very well,” he said.  “You are excused.”  

She scoffed as though she hadn’t been waiting and walked toward the door in the direction of the stairwell.  

“You may explore the house,” Hannibal said.  She paused at the archway to look at him, both eyebrows raised.  

“I trust you to remember my terms,” he said.  She glanced at the tablet; her fingers twitched.  

“Two weeks,” she said to him, and then left the room.  She tossed behind her as she walked, “so long as I have water.”

Hannibal sipped his coffee, speared a segment of lightly browned toast, and smiled.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

The house was large enough to be imposing.  Stephanie found the strongest-looking wooden pillar she could and slammed her fist against it, once, splitting her longest knuckle.  She hissed and watched the wound seal shut without a sound.  

She couldn’t escape.  

It wasn’t the murder which stayed her hands from ripping open the front door and running out into the daylight; it was the method.

It was different when it was her own life; she wasn’t risking anything.  Even if he murdered others, she could still rationalize away any personal responsibility when she wasn’t the one holding the knife.  Hannibal wasn’t a simple murderer, though.  He found a weak spot and exploited it; he tortured, tormented, mutilated until death.  

And unlike her, they wouldn’t come back.  

That old man had died as a mockery to his own son, killed by the man he treated as his surrogate.  That level of betrayal hurt so much she found it hard to breathe.  

Hannibal made it personal, close, and terrifying to the last breath.  

She had wandered into what appeared to be a study, and found a modern telephone designed to resemble an old-fashioned rotary phone.  She looked around the study to find that the rest of the decor matched; she felt as though she’d stepped into a 40’s noir piece.  

She stared at the retro phone, her fingers twitching.  She lifted the old-style set from the cradle and listened for the dial tone.  It was strong and sure in her ear.  

She could call the police.  She could.

She dialed another number instead.

 

* * *

  

She wasn’t yet back in her room.  

Hannibal rarely felt fear or uncertainty, could hardly label them when they fluttered to life in his mind.  Now, he was met with something very like satisfaction.  She was gone from the room, still exploring the house.  She wouldn’t run - he had made the consequences of her seeking assistance of other civilians too clear.  

That left a single, and simple, option open to her.  He backed away from the door and instead approached his own room, where he checked each corner and cove before picking up the phone by his bedside.  

He was greeted with the sounds of a phone ringing.  He had caught the beginnings of her search for assistance.  Hannibal waited for the 911 operator’s voice to speak, and planned his retribution for the disappointment simmering in him.  

The phone clicked as the call was accepted, and a man’s voice spoke.

“Hello?”

He sounded bleary, as though he’d been asleep.  It was a fair assessment; it was only seven in the morning.  Hannibal felt some small measure of confusion rise.  She had not called the police, but instead a man.  He carefully adjusted the phone so that his own breathing would not be heard, and listened with rapt attention.  

“Joshua,” she whispered, and the man’s voice began to sputter.  

“Steph - Stephanie?  Jesus Christ, _where are you?_ ”  The sounds of a scramble, of clothes being gathered.  By the quiet hitching, Hannibal suddenly realized that the woman who had yet to allow herself to openly mourn in front of him was quietly sobbing into the phone.  

“Joshua, stop, talk to me.”

“Yeah, Steph, I’m here, just give me a second, tell me where you are, I’ll be there in no time -”

“No.”

They all froze, and held their breath.  Joshua’s next sentence was laced with poisonous rage.  

“What the fuck do you mean, _no?_  Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?”

“No,” she said through her hitching breaths.  “I have no idea.”

Another long pause.  A creaking sound - Joshua sitting down on a bed.  

“What happened?” he asked her gently.  She sucked air noisily through her nose, collected herself.  Hannibal could picture her in his mind, shaking her head and taking on the stony expression she used for him.  

“No,” she repeated.  “Talk to me.  Tell me what I’ve missed.”

“Three months,” Joshua said.  “Your business has been closed in the meantime, but the police don’t think you’re coming back.  The space will be rented out soon.”

“It’s a shame,” she said.  “I really liked that life.”  

“I know you did,” he said.  They both stayed quiet.  Her breathing had evened out, and Hannibal thought she might be falling asleep.  

“Why won’t you tell me where you are?” Joshua asked, quietly.  

“He’ll kill you,” she said.  

“Steph -”

“ _No._ ”  She breathed hard, once, and he heard her bang a fist against something - the wall, by the hollow ring of it.  “No.”

“Alright.  Why didn’t you call the police?”

Here she paused, and Hannibal leaned forward, interested in this answer.  

“He’d kill them,” she finally said.  “And then he’d leave, and take me with him.”  

“You can’t know that.”

“I can,” she said.  After another moment, she added, “he’s a doctor.”

“ _Oh._ ”

The volume of information communicated in the monosyllabic word caught Hannibal’s full attention.   _Oh._  This Joshua knew of her condition, and knew how valuable it would be to someone in the medical profession.  How did he know?  

“Why won’t you tell me where you are, Steph?” Joshua asked.  

“Sometimes karma takes a while,” she replied, a bare whisper of guilt.  The silence grew heavy.  Hannibal carefully pointed his breath away from the receiver.   

“Talk to me,” she said after enough time had passed.  “Tell me about your life.”

“I uh, what?  My life.  My life has been spent searching for _you_.”

“Peru?”

“What - you think I’d still go?  I’m not going to your old stomping grounds without you.  That was the point!”

Hannibal’s eyebrows rose despite himself.  

“I wouldn’t...you should go.  Have fun.”  

“No,” Joshua said, and he managed to sound smug, throwing the word into her face.  Hannibal considered the tact of a man who would use this moment, with this context, to take petty revenge for an earlier slight in the very same conversation - and he thought of what this might say about the woman in question, when she merely laughed under her breath.  

“You are such a brat,” she said, and Joshua took his turn to laugh.  A code between them, then.  Old, shared language between two friends, possible lovers.  The silence stretched again, and Hannibal thought that both might be enjoying the mutual companionship of each other’s company, rather than allowing the weight of the situation to fall upon them in that quiet.  

Stephanie broke first, and this time he was certain she was lying with her head back, eyes closed.  

“Sing me to sleep,” she whispered, and Joshua obliged immediately.  He chose a simple song about love between siblings, melancholy and yet hopeful, and she listened in silence.  When he finished, she murmured a quiet “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Steph,” he said.  “Will you go to sleep now?”

“I probably shouldn’t.”  She did sound drowsy.  This was a ritual.  Hannibal considered lighting a candle in honor of the occasion.  

“Does whatever-his-name hurt you?” Joshua asked carefully, and Hannibal realized what he was doing, was too far away to disconnect the call to stop her.  

She spoke.  

“Dr. Lecter always hurts me,” she said, and the silence that followed her statement stretched long and wide before she hissed into the receiver.  

“Dammit, Josh -”

“Now I have a name and an area code,” he said.  “I’m coming.”

“Don’t.   _Don’t._ ”

“I’m coming,” he said again, and the line clicked as she disconnected the call to prevent herself from spilling more secrets.  Hannibal heard the man on the other end huff, and pause.  He waited for the pieces to connect, and finally, the voice emerged again.  

“You’re there, aren’t you?”  He paused to wait for a reply; Hannibal said nothing.  “Alright.  Then listen.  I have enough to find you.  And when I find you, you can guess what happens next.”

“I presume this is the inevitable death threat,” Hannibal said with no small amount of mirth.  “I will not defile your woman, Joshua.”

“My - right, whatever.”  Joshua had apparently decided that these terms weren’t worth arguing over, but his immediate confusion told Hannibal enough.  Not lovers, then, but friends.  Possibly siblings, based on the song chosen and the ease of speech between them.  

Which meant this Joshua might share her unique traits.  Hannibal would very much like to meet him, and the easiest way was to encourage a visit as soon as possible.  

Hannibal heard the movement of footsteps, the inevitable click of a door.  She had ascended and entered her room, silent as death, and never realized he was listening.  

“You don’t want to get involved with this,” the man was saying, and the phrasing caught Hannibal’s attention.  “It’s a bad idea for everyone.  Let her go, and I won’t come looking for you.”

“I’m afraid I cannot part with her,” Hannibal said with a smile, and twisted the knife.  “She is to become an integral part of my daily meals.”

He disconnected the call.  The lack of an immediate call-back was telling.  Joshua had understood, believed him, and would be in a frenzy seeking him out.  The inherent secrecy which was apparently evident in both of their lives nearly guaranteed that he would come alone.  

Hannibal would prepare for his arrival.  He already had ideas for the meal he would serve.  

 

* * *

 

“There is something I would like to try,” he said over dinner the following evening, “especially now that you have not eaten for more than a day.”  

The table wasn’t set; a small crank sat on the edge.  Her hands were bound to the arms of her chair, the cord across her chest.  She tried to think of better days.  

“I’m not going to ask,” she said.  She knew he wanted her to.  He tilted his head, then shrugged.  

“An old execution method, which I have always found fascinating.  I am curious how long it will take you to die.”

She closed her eyes and took her thoughts to Joshua.  She missed him desperately.  She wanted to go home.

She felt the slice, and the pull.  She could feel herself spilling out, and gasped out breaths as her body tried to heal, over and over, while he continually damaged her.  She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking, clattering against the wooden arms.  Each tug drew a little more out.  She hiccuped and swallowed her cries.  Her throat vibrated and she sucked air through her teeth.

“I know about your phone call,” he said, and she jolted so hard that the chair moved with her.  She opened her eyes and met his, hazy with pain.  She shook her head and tried to think past the pain, to speak eloquently, to play down the connection.  

“This is not an experiment,” he continued as he turned the crank slowly, steadily until a gurgled protest slipped out of her mouth.  “This is punishment.  More severe than I would use under normal circumstances, I assure you.”

She didn’t know who he was trying to reassure.  All that she could feel was pain.  

“I...didn’t -” she gasped, and he looked through her.  “You...heard?”

“I heard.  I was listening at the time, in fact.  Tell me, who is Joshua?”

“No,” she murmured, and fell still in the chair.  “Leave...don’t hurt...”

“I am afraid that it is your actions which may force my hand, Stephanie.”  She realized, belatedly, that there was no music playing, no soothing tones to distract herself with.  The sounds of her gasping, of the wheel turning, were the only music for this conversation.  

“Don’t,” she whispered, “don’t.  You’re...lonely.  Think...think.  Make it...years...centuries...you can’t…”

“He _is_ one of you?” he asked, sounding all too enlightened.  She cursed her cloudy brain, shaking her head to try and clear it, to try and focus harder.  

“Anything,” she said.  She tasted blood.  “Anything...you want.  Just leave...him alone.”

“You have very little to bargain with,” Hannibal said.  He had paused otherwise, letting her heavy breathing and slipping consciousness take its course.  

“I didn’t...mean...to...to…”  She couldn’t finish.  Her shudders were weaker as life ebbed from her body.  

“To tell him my name?  I believe you.”  

“I swear,” she gasped.  He tilted his head.  “I won’t...won’t leave.  Not ever.  Won’t fight.  Leave...leave…”

“To be clear,” Hannibal said, “you will never fight me, or attempt to leave again, so long as I agree to spare dear Joshua’s life?”

She nodded.  She closed her eyes.  

“I accept,” he said.  

She couldn’t open her eyes anymore, couldn’t look to see if she believed him.  All that she could do was slip away, and hope the darkness never let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Retro telephones are a real thing, and they are wonderful.


	4. Chapter 4

It was with a sense of wonder, a dawning realization of deeply ingrained, instinctive humility, that Hannibal found himself gazing upon the sky and sending a quiet, earnest sense of gratitude into the air itself.  

He never prayed, nor did he often believe in God.  He was fascinated by the concepts which men crafted in their eternal struggle for meaning, and since a day many years ago in the cold snow of his home country, he had sworn never to thank such a graceless being for the cruelty of continued existence.  

Yet here he stood, gazing out upon God’s wonders and thinking to himself that if only he thought the great overseer might care, he would thank it properly.  A new tableau, a sacrifice upon an altar to commemorate the swelling within his chest.  

He had the thought, and he resolved to act upon it regardless of the presence of God.  

The extraordinary circumstance was wrought through the advent of two unique creatures into his life, both so rare that in all his travels, he had never encountered either.  

One, a woman who healed from death itself, her own abilities ripping her from the hands of God, be they merciful or cruel.  This inbred ability to defy the Almighty appealed to Hannibal’s inner sense of wrongdoing, and her existence provided a light where previously he had merely subsisted, existed within the world and gone about his way as a shark through the deep ocean.  

The other, an empath of questionable sanity.  He had no doubt that in formal settings Will Graham could act as domesticated as any other.  The combined abilities of empathy and overactive imagination leant him an advantage in social settings; he could tailor himself to the emotions and perceptions spilling across his mind from those surrounding him, and likely charm a room into obedience.  

Despite this, Will refused to participate in the intricacies of polite interaction, much as Stephanie Caldwell refused to participate in the certainty of death, and Hannibal found himself torn to decide which presented the more interesting conundrum.  Stephanie and her apparent brother appealed to the scientist within him, while Will Graham spoke with the philosopher.  His only regret was that one could not pass their inherent traits to the other, to create the perfect suite of intellectual stimulation for the doctor.  

In the course of two months, Hannibal had found a reason to step from the shell of the person-like casing he had so carefully crafted, and expose himself to others in some small way.  Inevitably, this made him feel somewhat vulnerable, and of the two new curiosities within his sights, only one was bound to him by a vow.  

His head buzzing with his own ponderings, he formulated a question as he prepared breakfast for the two of them, knowing that Stephanie would emerge from her room and pad down the stairs on her own accord within the hour.  He had learned she was an early riser, which suited his schedule well.  

He waited until they were both seated to broach the subject still on the forefront of his mind.

“Why do you think you exist?”

They were sharing a simple meal of Scottish porridge garnished with dried cranberries, citrus juice and sliced green apples.  Stephanie set her spoon down at the question and folded her napkin into a tight square, thinking over her answer.  He respected that she needed the time; it was a heady question, one which had tormented humans since time beginning and would continue to haunt the species long after Hannibal himself was dust.  Here sat a creature who had witnessed death in a visceral, personal way - he had yet to tease her age from her, though he suspected she had seen more than one generation of men in her time - and he wanted to know what such a creature thought of such a question.  

Hannibal waited, taking a bite of his own meal while he gave her the chance to wrestle her demons.  Their truce was uneasy and one-sided, and he was quite willing to take advantage of her concessions.  He had found a lucky pressure point in the existence of her friend, and he pressed the issue often to remind her of where she stood.  

He kept cutlery well away from her hands, knowing too well that she would still make an attempt on his life if she thought she could succeed.  This necessitated a change in the consistency of the meals he served her, to eliminate the need for the presence of a knife at the table.  The adaptation was worthwhile; her eyes flickered toward the spot where a knife would normally lay at the beginning of each meal, and then turned to him in a moment of unconcealed consternation.  She knew what he was doing, and she resented him for it.  

He did enjoy their games.  

“There have been many theories,” she said carefully, and stopped.  Hannibal set his dish aside and presented her with his full attention, both out of politeness and the subtle reminder of their arrangement.  She would answer because she had no choice.  Stephanie stared down at the meal before her, glanced at him, looked away.  She did not want to answer this question, and was seeking out the best way to do so while saying as little as possible.  He would commend her efforts if not for the simple fact that he could not know the truth without her cooperation.  If she lied to him, he had no method to inform himself.  

Hannibal folded his hands, the image of patience, and leaned forward ever so slightly.  They across the table from one another, but his size and presence benefited him.  He was pressuring the air in front of her, and she leaned away in response despite herself.  She closed her eyes and her shoulders rose with tension.  

“I’ve heard that in the old days, some of us were gods.  We - we have a way to absorb power from each other.”  

He heard how she skirted the method itself, and resolved to ask it later.  

“Power, and memories.  Then someone started a game - a competition, fighting…”

Stephanie opened her eyes.  Her porridge was getting cold.  

“I refuse to participate,” she said, her voice stronger in her own vehemence.  “It’s a stupid waste.”

“What is your theory?” Hannibal asked, leaving the other questions for another time.  

She hesitated.  She had only ever discussed her thoughts with Joshua, who humored her endlessly.  She didn’t want to discuss them now.  

“I think we’re the last vestiges of an oral tradition,” she said slowly.  The relative shyness of her statement betrayed how deeply held the conviction was.  This was no passing idea; this was the core of her belief system, the informing doctrine to her way of life.  Hannibal was intrigued.  

“An oral tradition?”

“We can live - a long time.”  She hedged on admitting true longevity.  “We can take memories from each other.  There’s too few of us to be protective - it makes sense.”  She was burning with confidence, her presence stronger than before.  He leaned back to yield the table to her for the moment, to encourage her to continue.  She leaned forward into the regained ground and met his eyes.  

“Humans started with oral tradition.  It’s fallen out of favor, since we can record everything -” Hannibal noted her use of _we_ “- but technology can’t remember everything.  A person can, can remember how the seasons changing affected the people, how the temples looked when the sun hit them just right, the way the food smelled -”

She stopped and closed her mouth, her eyes suddenly becoming dull as she reminded herself of who she was speaking with.  She leaned back again, settling her weight into defeat, and stirred her spoon through the congealing porridge.  

“It’s just a theory,” she said to the table.  

“Thank you for sharing,” Hannibal said, and finished his meal with gusto.  

* * *

 

Will was unable to keep still for long, traipsing about the office on a never-ending quest for distractions for a too-active mind.  Hannibal maintained his position above, rifling through his own books while keeping close tabs on the profiler’s position within the office.  He chose the most appropriate reference, turned, and tossed the book down to Will’s waiting hands.  

“Public executions?” Will raised both eyebrows and sighed heavily, unwilling to open the book for the next several seconds, bracing for the assault of new gruesome imagery to join the myriad of already-present scenes in his mind.  “You think this was an execution?”

“A beheading is a very particular form of public statement,” Hannibal said.  “There is spectacle and display, both of which your murderer displayed.”

“The damage,” Will murmured, having opened the book and flipped until he found the obligatory labeled structure of a guillotine.  “Electrical, and fire - it was like a bomb made of lightning went off in there.”

“Your killer is shy as well.”  Hannibal climbed down the ladder slowly, allowing the nervous empath time to adjust to his entry into the lower space.  Will circled away from the ladder, creating superficial distance between them - a subconscious effort to protect himself from stray emotional output, despite a growing sense of ease between them.  

“That warehouse had been abandoned for thirteen years,” he said, setting the book on Hannibal’s desk as he passed it.  The literature would be better served by someone who knew which page to look at.  “They left the mess, but I don’t think this was a statement.”

“No?”  Hannibal flipped the cover and scrolled through the table of contents.  “He left the head and body - he didn’t care enough to try and hide the victim’s identity.”

“This wasn’t personal,” Will said, and Hannibal paused in his reading to look up and attempt to meet his eyes.  The effort failed, Will turning in his wandering to skirt around the taller man’s gaze.  Hannibal had to admire his tenacity, though he often longed to nail the man’s feet to the floor.  

“It’s missing emotion,” Will continued over Hannibal’s musings, “there’s no connection.  The body was left in a heap - no tact or finesse.”

“Does that offend you?” Hannibal watched the man’s shoulders tense and knew that some part of him, buried under a thin veneer of civility, was bothered by this killer’s lack of taste.  

“Murder offends me.” Will evaded, and Hannibal picked up the reference book to disguise his disappointment.  Progress would be slow, but the psychiatrist had patience.  

“As it offends most, in a civil society,” Hannibal said, and Will snorted.  “It’s considered impolite at best, an affront to human dignity at worst.”

“There was nothing here - no sense of justice, no sense of wrongdoing.  This person killed methodically.  They killed, they burned the surroundings, and they left.”

It was strange for a murder to lack passion on such a fundamental level, but street brawls and pointless shootings persisted.  It was less the lack of emotion and more the choice of weapon which distressed Will and intrigued Hannibal beyond what he could admit in this session:  a sword, an honest to goodness sword had been used.  By the bloodstains surrounding the beheaded corpse, the man had been kneeling when his head was cut from his body, and the body left unmarked otherwise.  The surroundings, in contrast, had suffered terribly as witnesses to the crime - the killer had burned nearly every inch of the space closest to the body with terrible electrical pulses.  The resulting fire induced a call to the fire department, which led to the discovery of the body.  Baffled by the choice of weapon and surrounding destruction, the police contacted the FBI.

And here they were.  

“What do we know about the victim?”  Hannibal pointed to a specific passage in the book while handing it off to Will, who read the paragraph with a distracted stare. 

“Mr. Gupta was a businessman, he collected antiques and rarities.  Really ancient stuff, focused on Persia.  He was from the region, probably had sentimental value.”  Will held the book with one hand while he removed his glasses with the other, pressing the back of his palm to his forehead to stave off the pounding headache.  

“The favored Persian sword, the shamshir, was not always the curved blade we know today.  Once, Persians fashioned a double-edged straight blade, similar to Indian and European blades.  It was after trade routes opened with China that the shamshir as we know it arose.”

Will glanced at him through the edges of his eyes, considering this random tidbit of knowledge.  Sometimes they led to epiphanies, and sometimes he found himself wondering why on Earth Hannibal had learned so much strange, stray information.  

“Things evolve as they’re exposed to new cultures and ideas,” Will said slowly.  “Mr. Gupta recently signed a contract with an Asian museum to donate some of his collection for preservation in their vaults.”

“Perhaps a disgruntled aficionado did not appreciate his willingness to share,” Hannibal said.  Will closed the book, where Hannibal had pointed out the paragraph featuring the relative honor perceived in dying by beheading on the battlefield.  

“Fire cleanses, but the body wasn’t touched, just the scene around it.  Whoever did this cleansed the scene but not Mr. Gupta, to show their contempt for him,” Will said.  He was warming to the idea, slowly formulating a profile based on a small thought snatched from the air around him.  Hannibal smiled and wondered if it were correct at all.  

“It’s an angle to work with.  Do you know any other antique collectors who might have known him, Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal presented a list of seven names and sent Will on his way.  He slid his coat on, turned out the lights and took his leave of the office, driving home with purpose.  He had intended to use tonight to fulfill his earlier promise of a sacrificial lamb, but was consumed with a driving suspicion which guided him instead to his home.  

He pulled into the driveway, turned off the car and pulled the key from the lock.  A pause, before opening the car door handle and approaching his own door.  He considered how best to broach the subject; he had yet to ask this particular question, and he suspected that his guest would not appreciate the matter being brought up after so many weeks of indifference.  

He ascended the stairs to the locked room, and knocked twice on the door before turning the outer latch.  He opened the door to find Stephanie lying back on the bed, reading _Flowers for Algernon_.  Her eyes were large and wet, and the scent of distress filled the air.  She was nearing the end of the novel.  

She wiped at her face, embarrassed to be caught in the throes of emotion.  

“What do you want?” she asked, and Hannibal raised his eyebrows.  They had discussed basic manners more than once, and the results of the conversation were never in her favor.  He waited for her to remember this now, and smiled when she took a deep breath and muttered, “sorry.”

“It is quite alright.  I have a question for you, if you have a moment.”

He could see the comments she wanted to make flash across her face, most of them bitter or brimming with sarcastic unease.  She set the book against her thighs and pressed her hands against either side of the cover, taking a deep breath.  

“What question?”  She made an effort to sound polite, and he rewarded her by leaning against the doorway.  The gesture dropped the tension within the room as the innate violence ever-present in him relaxed into a casual posture, and her nostrils flared as she sucked in a deep breath of relief.  

“When I found you, there was a dagger -”

“No.”

Stephanie turned her head away, avoiding him in the only way she could.  Hannibal remained still for several seconds, startled by her abrupt interruption.  When he continued to say nothing, she raised her hands to her upper arms and squeezed the muscles there.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, and Hannibal pushed his weight away from the door frame.  She reacted - her legs swung to the other side of the bed and she stood, placing the structure between them.  It couldn’t protect her, but he didn’t resent the effort.  Despite her abilities, he had learned that she did not _want_ to suffer pain if she could avoid it.  

A pity.  

“Unfortunately for you, Stephanie, I would like to discuss it now.”  Hannibal stepped into the room, once, and she stepped to the side.  She was pinning herself into the corner; as she moved, her eyes glanced toward the open door at his back, and he wondered if the topic was so forbidden to her that she would risk their agreement for a renewed escape attempt.  

“There has been a murder,” he said, stopping in the center of the open space, only one step ahead of the opening.  She could not get past him without a weapon, and he had made sure to deny her every possible weapon within the room.  “A beheading.  The body was discarded, and the killer burned the area around it while leaving the body alone.”

“That sounds awful,” she said.  He could _see_ that she knew more, sensed the information hovering just behind her eyes.  The air turned sharp with the sweat of fear.  She was lying by omission, and they both knew.  

“Your resistance grows tiring,” Hannibal said.  “I am not above chemical induction, Stephanie.”

Her eyes flickered downward, toward the basement three floors below.  He had ensured that she understood why she was forced to inhabit the high ground when a basement waited below.  The basement held what she feared.  He had taken her down once, to show her a possible future which awaited her.  She had found herself staring into the drug-dead stare of a young FBI trainee, lost for nearly two full years, and she had quailed at the myriad of needles and tools below.  

It earned him three solid days of cooperation without questions until the passage of time wore down the shock of discovery.  Now she was becoming brave again, which meant another set of reminders was due.  

He preferred words to visual cues.  She understood them well enough, and he had the pleasure of watching her pupils expand in belated fear when she realized what he was threatening.  

Stephanie shook her head and looked at the wall to her side.  He stepped further into the room, approached until he stood just before her and looked down at her.  She closed her eyes and took deep, long breaths to keep herself steady.  When he was close enough to feel the brush of air, she looked up at him and held her ground.  

“His name is Charlie Munt,” she said.  “He’ll have the sword on him, under a trench if he’s wearing one.”

“And who is Charlie Munt?” Hannibal asked.  

“The man who stuck that dagger in me,” she said.  


	5. Chapter 5

In many ways, the antique store was a disappointment.  Hannibal looked over the cracked paint surrounding the door, the musty windows in need of dusting, and the old, weathered sign announcing the shop’s name, and pursed his lips in disgust.  He had not entered such an establishment in quite some time, preferring owners who kept their workplaces clean.

Curiosity alone drove him through the door, and on the other side he found himself assaulted by the overpowering smell of aged wood and rotted cloth.  Many of the antiques were beyond salvaging, and more than one wooden piece cried out for a new coat of lacquer.  Hannibal ran a hand over one such piece, a painted stool which likely hailed from a time before automobiles, and wiped at the dust smudging his finger with his thumb.  

“With you in a minute,” called a voice from the back area.  A thick drop cloth separated the front from the rear of the store, and Hannibal was tempted to rip the cloth down, if only to stir millions of dust motes into the air and watch the man cough in his own refuse.  

He resisted, and was awarded when Charlie Munt himself emerged from behind the cloth.  Hannibal recognized him immediately, the man he’d thought he left for dead in a darkened, abandoned house.  Charlie wore a set of glasses which did not morph his eyes in any way - fake glasses, only for show.  Hannibal smiled when he saw him, and the man paused when he met Hannibal’s eyes.  

“I see,” said Charlie.  He walked forward, extending one hand to shake.  Hannibal accepted, and the two sized each other up during the short contact.  Hannibal kept his grasp firm and strong; he was taller than Charlie, but not by much.  It was important to establish some form of dominance before proceeding.  

“I’m guessing you’ve realized that you have a particular kind of antique in your possession, hmm?”  Charlie was smiling so wide that Hannibal thought his lips might split.  “How may I help you?” he asked.  

“I am seeking out further information on my newly acquired antique,” Hannibal said.  

“Feisty, isn’t she?”  Charlie straightened an old, stained tablecloth.  “She refuses to give up her secrets easily.”

“Are you aware of any particular secrets I might take advantage of?”

Charlie stepped behind a glass case.  Numerous skeleton keys, bottle openers and ornamental necklaces were scattered throughout the case.  

“You know about the brother?” he asked, and Hannibal nodded as he pointed to an old pocket watch.  Charlie unlocked the case and reached inside, offering the watch for Hannibal’s perusal.  “That’s as far as I got, too.  I assure you, there is nothing else to find that would benefit you.  Me, however - I could stand to gain quite a lot from her.”

“I feel that you are about to make a proposal,” Hannibal said.  The watch was in desperate need of upkeep.  He handed it back to Charlie.  “I fear that I am not impressed by the state of affairs in your shop.  I do not know that you would take good care of this most precious antique.”

“This is just the showroom,” Charlie said.  “Can’t have thieves seeing an easy target.  Come to the back, where the better-kept items are.”

Hannibal followed him behind the drop cloth, and further inside, until they reached an unassuming door.  Charlie unlocked the door and entered, beckoning for Hannibal to follow.  He turned on the lights within, and Hannibal turned to admire the various swords - rapiers, katana, broadswords, a two-handed claymore.  There was even a gladius toward the back, as though the weapons were arranged in order of antiquity.  All of them were in usable condition.  

“This is different from the others,” Hannibal said of what appeared to be the latest addition.  The design was similar to a wooden paddle, with dark obsidian embedded into either side.  He reached to touch the sharpened stone, and Charlie shook his head.  

“I wouldn’t,” he said.  “This macuahuitl is well-loved.  The obsidian is sharp enough to take someone’s head clean off.”

“And is that the intention?” Hannibal asked, drawing his hand back.  

“I’ll make a deal with you,” Charlie said.  “A trade.  You can have any one of these you like, in exchange.”

“One priceless antique for another?” Hannibal asked.  “Considering what is being exchanged, I doubt I am the one getting the bargain.”

“You don’t even know what you have,” Charlie said.  

“Perhaps you would be so kind as to join me for dinner,” Hannibal said.  “We may discuss the transaction in further detail then.”  

Charlie agreed, and Hannibal provided his address and began thinking through the various options available for the meal.  As he stepped from the shop, he added, “bring the sword you find to be the most valuable.  I am sure we can agree upon a price.”  

* * *

 

Stephanie had taken to lying down on the bed, with nothing better to occupy her thoughts.  Hannibal had provided an assortment of classic literature, which she gratefully accepted to his face, then tossed into one of the unused bureau drawers the moment he left the room.  

She had taken to counting the bumps in the ceiling, simply because there was nothing further to do.  Her scrutiny revealed a water-damaged patch in a far corner, at too odd of an angle for a cursory glance from the doorway to be seen.  She took pleasure in knowing that there was one small section of the house that she knew better than Hannibal, even if it were just a small imperfection.  

She started to doze off, when the headache sprang behind her eyes.  

She sat up straight in bed with a sharp gasp, tossed her legs to the side and pressed herself against the door.  She was too far up to hear anything.  She tried the door handle and found the latch securely in place.  She rattled the door once, twice, then hissed in frustration.  

There was no telling who was downstairs with Hannibal, and there was only one person she desperately did not want it to be.  She braced her hands against the door and pulled.  The latch stayed secure.  She’d seen how the door opened; there was no deadbolt in place.  Instead, the latch was a simple slide bar toward the top of the frame.  

She pulled harder, and again.  The sound of splintering wood emboldened her.  She would reveal much of her own strength with this action; she decided not to care.  She braced her weight, flexed her muscles and pulled.  The door cracked at the top as the screws were pulled free, and she was free to step into the hallway.  

She followed the aching in her skull with frantic abandon.  By the time she was near the dining room, she was sprinting, and crashed into the room heedless of her bare feet and simple linen garments.  

“Josh!” she cried, and froze at the searing stare of Charlie Munt.  She blinked and gasped a breath, taking one step back.  Her eyes flickered to the kitchen entryway.  

“Hello, Miss Caldwell,” Charlie said cheerfully.  “What a pleasure to see you again.”  

She started to turn, to run, and froze when Hannibal appeared in the kitchen entryway.  

“Stephanie,” he said, “would you care to join us?”

Charlie grinned like a hungry wolf, while Hannibal only watched her with impassive eyes.  She shuddered, once, and looked down at herself.  She started to shake her head, and Hannibal approached her and rested a hand behind one of her elbows.  

“I insist.  Come, sit.”  He was already leading her, and placed her at the end of the table, opposite Charlie Munt and his salivating stare.  She dropped her gaze to the table, and stayed that way until Hannibal left the room to gather the dishes.  The moment he was out of sight, she turned her eyes up and met Charlie’s stare.  

“What are you doing here?” she hissed, low and deadly.  

“Why, discussing an exchange of goods with Dr. Lecter,” he said.  He sipped the wine at his right hand, smiling all the while, and she narrowed her eyes.  

“He wouldn’t give me away,” she said.  “He lied to you.”

“But aren’t you going to ask what I’m exchanging?”  Charlie leaned back in his chair.  “There are so many things more valuable than your hide, Miss Caldwell.”

“I’m afraid we have not entered discussions yet,” Hannibal said as he returned.  He set a dish in the center, sitting between the two enemies.  A heart, wrapped in strips of bacon and sliced into fine slivers.  Stephanie tilted her head at the offering, and placed both hands on the table.  Hannibal placed a third table setting in front of her, slow and delicate, like a casual dance.  Charlie watched her all the while, and she felt her shoulders tensing with every passing moment.  

Hannibal’s hand dropped to her shoulder in a soothing gesture, and she straightened her spine in response.  

“Beef heart braised in wine, wrapped in tender pork and served with a souffle of in-season vegetables,” Hannibal said.  Stephanie clenched her jaw as Charlie took his own serving and first bite before Hannibal had taken his seat.  The doctor only raised a brow at the behavior, then served her a portion.  

She looked down at the serving on her plate, took up her fork and knife, and cut a tender slice of heart.  

“My goodness,” Charlie said as she raised the bite to her mouth.  “This is absurd, Dr. Lecter.”  He began eating in earnest, intent on clearing his plate, as Stephanie chewed her first bite.  

She paused.  Creased her brow.  Chewed more slowly, savored the taste, swallowed and looked again at the dish before her.  She took a second bite, to be certain, and set her utensils down.  It was only then that she noticed Hannibal’s gaze fixed on her, watching for her reaction.  

She flushed and looked away.  

“Something wrong, Stephanie?”  She looked at him again.  Hannibal knew what was wrong.  He was waiting to see what she’d do in response.  

“The heart,” she said.   “Where did you get it?”

“He was an old bull,” Hannibal said.  “His stud days were long over.”  

“A mercy killing,” Charlie said.  “How kind of you to relieve him of the tedium of life.”  

Stephanie saw the old man on display, and pushed away from the table.  

“Excuse me,” she said, and left the room.

 

* * *

 

“Feisty, as I said,” Charlie said after she’d left.  “I see that you haven’t managed to tame her.  Don’t feel too bad, no one has ever managed it save one.”

“Her brother?” Hannibal asked, and Charlie laughed.  

“God, no.  That man came long after - well.  You know my terms, Dr. Lecter.  I’ll take her tonight, if you’ll be so kind as to sedate her for me.  I promise you, your secrets will never leave my lips.”

“I decline your offer,” Hannibal said.  He had gotten what he needed from this exercise.  

“What?”  Charlie set his fork and knife down with a loud clank.  “You cannot - what use could you possibly get from her?”

“I enjoy her company,” Hannibal said.  “I would ask that you leave now, Mr. Munt.  You are no longer welcome in my home.”

Charlie stood.  “You are keeping a young woman captive in this house,” he said.  “I hope you have an excellent lawyer.”

“You were bargaining for her as a possession,” Hannibal said, calm and unaffected.  “I have recorded our conversations.  If you go to the police, we will both be exposed for what we are.”  

“You assume I love this life too much to destroy it?”  Charlie was tense with rage.  

“I assume that this is a strange amount of effort to go to, for one woman,” Hannibal said.  

Charlie left, grabbing his trench as he exited through the front door.  Hannibal shut and locked the door, then turned and headed for the stairwell.  He expected to find Stephanie in the upstairs bathroom, ejecting the night’s scant bites from her stomach.  He found her at the head of the stairs, sitting with her hands clasped and watching him approach.  

He ascended, and stopped when he stood a few steps below, towering over her.  She looked down at her hands.  

“Every year we pass the anniversary of our death without even knowing,” she said.  “Some of us just get a little longer.”

“What is it like, when the years stretch further than you can see?”

“Lonely,” she said.  “We’re few of us friends.  He wants to kill me.”

“What purpose would that serve?” Hannibal asked.  He removed his jacket, draping it over the railing, and sat next to her on the stairwell.

“Very little,” she said.  “A lot, to him.  And your friend.  Another headless corpse, another burned building.”

“Do you fear death?”  Hannibal looked down at this creature, who could survive so many torments and executions.  Her familiarity with death intrigued him.  

“I could say no, to sound brave,” she said.  “It’d be a lie.  I fear it, just like anyone else.”  

“Perhaps more,” he said.  “You have seen what awaits us, when we die.”

“Are you going to ask what I see?”  Stephanie twisted her fingers together.  

“Do many people ask, once they discover what you are?”  She said nothing, and he considered.  “I see no reason to enlighten them,” he said.  “Death will find us all.”  

"I do," she said, staring down at her fingers.  "People deserve to know the truth, when they ask."

"And what is the truth?"

"There's nothing," she said.  Her eyes were glazed as she spoke, talking to a distant memory.  "There's nothing waiting for them."  She laughed quietly and glanced at him from the corner of her eye.  

“Or if there is, I guess I don't get to see it."

Hannibal felt electrified and stared at her, through her, trying to see this life through the eyes of someone who knew, beyond doubt, that this was all there was.  

"When I close my eyes, it's dark,” she said.  “And quiet.  There's nothing beautiful or ugly waiting.  Just...nothing."  

"And when you wake?"

She was quiet for so long that he thought she might not answer.  

"When I wake up," she whispered, "I feel nothing but pain."

Hannibal looked from her to the hallway below, where he held extravagant galas, and wondered at the flutter in his chest.  

“Go rest,” he said.  She didn’t argue, pushing away from the banister and walking to her room.  She shut the door behind herself, and he checked the lock on the door to see how she’d escaped.

For all intents and purposes, it seemed as though she’d simply beaten down the door.  He considered his estimation of her strength, and resolved to find a more sturdy lock for the future.      


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curiosity killed the cat.

“Put them on,” Hannibal said.  “You will want to be comfortable.”

Stephanie picked up the workout clothes he'd laid across her bed and sighed.  They would likely be ill-fitting as all workout clothes were on her.  She looked at Hannibal and raised both eyebrows, silently asking a question.  

“It has been several years since I had a worthy sparring partner,” Hannibal said.  “Far more since I could practice certain techniques, for fear of permanent damage.  I thought you might enjoy the exercise.”

She wanted to be offended or scared.  In truth, she was relieved.  She hadn’t been able to properly maintain her own techniques, and this gave her a better chance to suss out Hannibal’s weaknesses under the guise of obedience.  

It granted him the same opportunity.  She considered the trade-off worthwhile.

"You're giving me the chance to fight you," she said carefully, in case this were a trick.  "To hit you."

He smiled.  

"As I said, I thought you might enjoy the exercise.  Come to the study when you are ready to begin."

She thought of various scenarios as she changed.  He wouldn't allow weapons, surely - he knew she would kill him if given a proper chance.  They both knew he was stronger than her by far, though she favored techniques which worked with that very fact.  The only leash he held required him to remain alive.  

He _knew_ she was dangerous, and wouldn’t care to risk herself to gain the upper hand.  This endeavor was nothing but a risk, and a strange one.  She couldn’t suss out his motivations beyond some sort of bone-deep boredom with the tedium of life, and if that were the case, why not end it himself?  

The motivation, for all intents and purposes, appeared to amount to _why not_?  She shook her head and rolled up the ends of the pants, tying them off around her ankles.  He was nothing but a bored cat poking its foot into water, fascinated by the strange reflections, shimmers and bubbles produced.  

She walked from the room and down the stairs slowly, expecting some sort of ambush.  She was left alone, and by the time she reached the study she heard the tail-end of a phone conversation.  

“I understand,” Hannibal said, and placed the phone on the cradle just before she rapped one knuckle against the entry.  

He hadn’t changed from his customary suit.  The hairs along her arms and the back of her neck rose in instinctive suspicion.  Something was wrong.  

“Mr. Munt has offered a considerable fee for an exchange,” Hannibal said.  Stephanie tilted her head and narrowed her eyes.  

“And you declined,” she said.  

“I accepted,” Hannibal said, and she straightened her spine and clenched her fists.  

“Are you taking me to him, or is he coming here?” she asked, refusing to engage in the brawl Hannibal clearly expected.  His eyebrows rose at her question.  

“Ever the surprise.”  When this didn’t cause an outburst, he said, “He is on his way now.”

She looked down at the clothes he’d given her.  

“I did not want you to ruin the fabrics,” Hannibal said.  “Fine linen should be both appreciated and maintained.”

She looked across the study, turned in a circle, and approached the fireplace.  She picked up the metal poker and spun it in her palm once, testing the weight and balance.  

“You should leave,” she said, and turned to look at him.  Hannibal was outright intrigued.  He had left the sturdy metal prod in plain sight, a silent offering for her to make an honest attempt on his life.  Instead she stood across from him in a particular stance, the poker gripped properly by the handle, and compelled him to leave.  

As though he were not a threat to her, in the grand scheme of life.  

As though he were _irrelevant_.  

Hannibal found himself envious.  In this moment, the woman before him was entirely inhuman, her reasoning so far removed from a mortal reaction that Hannibal could not conceive of the pathways she might be accessing.  Will Graham absorbed too much of humanity and spat the results out without conscious thought, often against his will; Stephanie Caldwell tossed the human trappings aside and ascended beyond them, adjusting her perception into something unaffected and entirely alien.

She was composed yet fraught with tension, not beaten down but committed to survival despite a long, empty life spanning ahead of her.  

Hannibal was envious.  Despite his own greatest efforts, he could only ever be human.  

Perhaps it was the fear of the long, cold black which awaited her on the other side of the veil.  Regardless of the reasoning, in this moment she dazzled him, and he shook his head in response to her suggestion.  

“I will observe,” he said.  “I would like to see what you will do.”

She laughed.  

“Sure, alright,” she said.  “You stay and observe.  You _watch_.”  

She sounded as though there were a punch line embedded in the sentence, and he could not fathom what she meant.  She inhaled deeply, her eyes widening just enough to alert him that something was different.  She turned her head toward the front door, moments before the doorbell rang through the house.  

He watched her until she shrugged.  

“It’s your house,” she said, and he turned to leave the room and answer the door.  

“Dr. Lecter, a pleasure,” Charlie said from the foyer.  Stephanie prepared herself, then stood in the center of the room and waited for the men to return.  “Your prize is in the car, pending delivery, as agreed.  Now if you’ll just -”

He appeared in the doorway of the study and froze for a moment, then raised both eyebrows and huffed out an irritated breath.

“Ah,” he said.  “She doesn’t seem sedated, does she?” He clapped his hands together, and started to circle her slowly.  Hannibal stood in the doorway and watched.  

Waiting.

“Shall we take this somewhere else?” Charlie asked her, without glancing at Hannibal.  

“Somewhere abandoned?” she asked.  “An old warehouse?”  She stepped forward, only once, and he flinched and drew a bastard sword from within his coat.  

“There’s not much room -”

She lunged and swung, he parried.  Sparks flew from their weapons.  

“Dammit -”

She saw dark eyes watching with rapt attention above his shoulder, and paused long enough for her opponent to scour a deep gouge into her side.  She grunted and fell to one knee, and swung up the poker to meet his anticipated swing for her neck.  

She spun the weapons together and drove the point of his sword down.  She reached forward and wrapped one hand around the back of his knee, pulling until he stumbled and fought to correct his balance.  

She tried to stand and follow through; her side wasn’t ready, and she gasped at the pain.  

Hannibal was watching as though he’d never seen a better performance.  She grimaced and tried to focus on the fight, could only see Hannibal’s strange scrutiny.  

A revelation revived her.  

The lightning might kill him, destroy his fancy, beautiful house.  He would be a charred body, an addition to the crime scene his pet profiler would investigate the following morning.  

She swung around with renewed inspiration and cracked the middle of the poker’s length into Charlie’s elbow, bending the joint backwards and making him yell in pain and drop the bastard.  He staggered back and she drove forward, ever forward, beating the limbs within range until he could do nothing beyond try to fend off her blows with his arms.  

She slammed the iron into his left knee; he fell to the side and she was on him.  She grabbed both sides of his head and beat it into the floor three times in rapid succession.  He slurred his words and muttered for her to stop.  

“I don’t participate,” she snarled at him, “but I remember what you tried to do to me.”  

She felt Hannibal’s interest rise, and hoped he stepped closer.  

“Did you only bring the bastard, _Charlie_?”  She grabbed at his waist until she found the blade - a dagger, serrated on one side and not meant for what she wanted to do.  

She heard Hannibal step closer, the press of rubber soles against the wooden floor of the study.  

She pressed the edge of the dagger to Charlie’s throat and ignored his sputtered pleas.  

She began to saw.  

 

* * *

 

Hannibal watched in fascination as she sawed the man’s head from his body.  There was practiced savagery here:  she had done this very thing before, possibly dozens of times, and she neither hesitated nor balked as the work progressed.  

When she finished and the head parted and rolled to the side, Hannibal considered that his decision to gift her cheap clothing for this exercise was wise.  She was covered in Charlie Munt’s blood, her knees slipping on the floor as she rose from the ground and stared at him with such intense hatred that he took one step back, half-expecting her to attack.  

She stood her ground.  

“You wanted to see what we do?” she asked as a fine mist began to gather and the air thickened with static.  She spread her arms, tilted her face upward and laughed.  

When the first bolt struck her straight in the center of her chest, the lights exploded and the house went dark as the transformer outside erupted in a blazing explosion.  

Hannibal wondered if perhaps this had been a mistake, moments before the room was engulfed in an electrical storm.  

 

* * *

 

 

“Steph, wake up.”  Joshua.  She leaned toward him for comfort through the haze and felt real arms wrap around her.  

“Josh,” she gasped, “you need to go.”  

She was outside; she heard the breeze and felt the cool air.  At some point she had flown through the wall, and was lying on her back in Hannibal's beautiful, manicured garden.  

Some of the trees were on fire.  She watched them in a daze, and felt those same arms wrap under her knees and back.  She was lifted into the air.

“No, Josh, you need to _leave_ ,” she slurred.  She thought she needed to protect him from something.  She could only partially remember what.  

“Save it,” he said, and she closed her eyes.  

“Is he alive?” she asked.  She wasn’t certain she cared, but the question seemed important.  She was loaded into the backseat of a car, where she laid flat against the seat and tried to stay awake.  A blanket was placed over her, and she abruptly felt warm.  

“You found me,” she murmured.  

“The exploding house helped,” he said drily.  “Otherwise I was going to knock on doors and hope for the best.”

“Is he dead?”  She knew this was important.

“I’ve got you, Steph,” Joshua said.  “Sleep now, talk later.”

She slept and dreamed of Hannibal kneeling over her, dipping a fork delicately into her chest and eating her heart, bit by bit.  


End file.
